ohio is for lovers
by bellmare
Summary: different people have different ways of expressing themselves, and it doesn't have to be through words. Manga/game-verses. —ensemble, multiple pairings.


**{oo1} → shadow claw ****→ oak/agatha**

She tries not to react when she sees him on the television—he's barely changed over the years, even if he's got more wrinkles around the eyes than he used to, and his hair isn't as dark or abundant as it once was. Then and again, he would probably say the same of her—she's not as young anymore, not as energetic or proudly straight-backed; worst of all are the aches and pains which assuage her some mornings, reminding her of her age.

With the mere sound of his voice as he rambles on enthusiastically about his research, Agatha is transported back to her youth, remembering him as he used to be before he softened up.

How many years have passed since they last spoken? How many years since she first fell for him? How many—?

Without thinking, she picks up the phone, dials the number which is printed on every single phone book across all the regions. She mulls over their shared history in the silence, twining the thick spiral cord around her fingers as the dual-toned rings pile up, until it seems as though she's been sitting there forever waiting foolishly for her call to be picked up.

Just as she is about to set the phone back in its cradle, a voice bursts through the earpiece, breathless and tinny—but unmistakably recognisable.

"Hello? Oak speaking."

Agatha is content to listen to the sound of his voice, to remind her of why she never pursued him. Just as he sighs – _another crank call_ – and sends his breath rasping over the fragile bridge of their connection in a rush of static, she breaks her silence, sends a low chuckle juddering along the airwaves.

_You sound well—but you don't seem to have changed one bit, you dried-up old codger_, she imagines herself to say, and wordlessly replaces the receiver with a sharp _click_.

**{oo2} → surf ****→ brawly/roxanne**

When she finally allows herself to be pressured into surfing, she does so with tentative reluctance—it is a far cry from her area of expertise, but Roxanne figures that she owes it to him: after all, Brawley has visited the library often enough with her in the recent past.

If anything, she is immensely proud of the fact that he has read all her favourite books from cover to cover and can quote them back to her practically verbatim.

However, there are two main things wrong with the very idea of going out to face the deep blue sea on nothing more than a glorified piece of laminated wood and plastic polymer. Her first concern is the fact that whilst it is all very well and fine to read up on the subject and reassure herself with the fact that she has the theory behind the techniques down pat, it is another matter entirely to actually get onto a surfboard and ride the waves.

The other is that Brawly will have ample opportunity to laugh at her abject failure—an unbearable notion which brings a petulant, resigned grimace to her face.

Still, it isn't half bad to feel his hands – large, warm, calloused – steadying her on the bobbing board, a delighted chuckle bubbling forth from his lungs at the mere idea that she has actually agreed to this.

There is no need for words, even as she topples off the accursed thing for the umpteenth time that hour, treading water as he snakes an arm around her waist and pulls her – red-faced, sputtering and stammering like a schoolgirl – to his pleasantly sculpted chest, kissing her shamelessly on the cheek even as she turns stubbornly away.

**{oo3} → tailwind ****→ falkner/janine**

Sometimes, he wonders what his father would think if he were to see him with her.

_You should be concentrating on your duties; you're still young—you shouldn't be jumping into things like this just yet._

Falkner treats whatever his father says as the best advice anybody could possibly give him, but this is where he has to disagree; true, he feels more than slightly foolish for following the capricious whims of his heart, but that does not mean he is unable to decide on the course he wants to take.

_Follow your heart,_ he remembers somebody telling him; he cannot quite put a finger on the elusive voice which occasionally speaks forth from the back of his mind, but he is certain those were the words of his mother, though he cannot be sure—not when he barely knew her. Still, he suspects she would be glad to see him now, pursuing his desires instead of allowing duty to stand in his way. Doubtless, she would have approved – whilst he knows that his father is a great and honourable person, he also accepts the fact that Wayne is a hard taskmaster, strict and goal-orientated, a man who never had much time for family.

_But this is my life,_ Falkner argues to the shadows. _Haven't I filled your shoes enough as it is?_

Of course, he gets no reply.

The questions burn through his mind in the cool of the evening as he turns to Janine to meet her impassive eyes, the question tumbling forth from his lips in an inglorious mass of words. "D'you…would you like a…could I do you the honour of escorting you home?"

Janine turns an inscrutable half-lidded gaze to his faintly-flushed face, then nods, a slow, measured dip of her head. "I have two scores of poison needles concealed on my person," she says with amusement as the corners of her eyes crinkle into a smile. "As well as a number of Pokémon on hand, whose poison will have any assailant rendered incapacitated for up to a week. Tell me, what can you offer that those safeguards cannot?"

His throat is dry as he speaks, wishing he could see more of her features—which she conceals behind the scarf pulled drawn her face. "My heart," he whispers hoarsely, feeling the blood pound in his head.

She draws in a breath, pulls down her scarf, opens her mouth to respond—but he silences her before she can move – _a first, that_, he notes with some giddy hysteria – and presses his lips to hers.

**{oo4} → petal dance ****→ brock/erika**

He is of the earth – stalwart, steadfast, an anchor amidst the turmoil; she assures him of the fact that no matter who he is, she will love him, but he nonetheless feels ashamed of his comparatively unrefined appearance.

He knows what she'll say to him—_never change; I love you as everything you are._ Still, he is always conscious of the inquiring stares they get when they are out together: they are so unlike, the both of them—his pams are rough and calloused from training, and his clothes border towards the hardy, tough and functional. She is truly a lady, dignified and composed; she moves with the grace of a willow, and surrounds herself with beauty – be it in the form of grass Pokémon wafting sweet scents, or the elegant floral print of silken kimonos. When he takes note of these contrasts, Brock is sure that when they are seen together, half of Celadon City wonders whether he is Erika's bag-carrier or something equally lowly.

But all his doubts fall away when she turns to him with a gentle smile curving across her lips, slender fingertips brushing across his wrist; as he bows his head to meet hers, she bestows upon him a chaste kiss—and his heart nearly stops.

_You'll always be my perfect gentleman_, she seems to say; he tentatively twines his fingers with hers and they continue down the city square.

This time, he meets everybody's eyes with unabashed pride.

**{oo5} → magnet rise** **→ volkner/jasmine**

He first sees her from his lonely perch within the Vista Lighthouse as he squints against the glare of the setting sun at the unfamiliar figure who pads barefoot through the beach, heedless of the cold seawater which inches up the shore.

Volkner does not recall seeing her before—he would definitely remember if he had. Either way, he only watches as the lone silhouette paces to and fro along the stretch of sand, and is suddenly struck by the oddest compulsion to join her.

From then on, he abandons the solitude of the lighthouse and takes the initiative to greet her – and before he knows it, they are meeting at Sunyshore Beach on a daily basis, just to watch as the sun sinks ever-lower along the twilit horizon. They slip effortlessly into a pattern of idyllic days filled with meandering strains of conversations and quick, almost embarrassed pecks on blushing cheeks in the shadow of the harbour, feeling nothing but the sea-breeze in their hair and one another's heartbeats through thin fabric.

When Jasmine returns to her home region, he finds himself writing endless letters and receiving a constant stream of correspondences from his – _dare he say it? _the words sounds so alien and strange on his tongue, yet oddly fitting – long-distance lover. He keeps the photographs she sends him, of the cobbled streets of Olivine City; the docks with their innumerable proud ships waiting to sail the world; the occasional snapshots of her taken by friends. Day by day, the little scraps of their shared history build up on his desk until he realises one week that he can barely find his official Pokémon League paperwork amidst the jumble of prettily-patterned stationery with loose, looping cursive print.

One evening, he's back down at the beach with pen in hand and a sheaf of papers tucked under his arm, absently tossing scraps of bread at the raucous mob of Wingull that circle the air high above his head.

_I heard Olivine is quite pleasant at this time of the year_, he writes after debating at great length. _Are there any attractions you think I should visit?_

**{oo6} → rain dance** **→ juan/fantina**

Their eyes meet over the expanse of a crowded contest hall, and for an instant, the world falls away. The chatter of enthusiastic crowds fades to a distant hum like the swell of the sea; as he quirks an eyebrow and bows his head in a small salute, she curtsies slightly in return, a crescent-moon smile curving across her lips.

_Por lo que comienza_, Juan whispers as he calls forth his Kingdra; across from him, at the other side of the stage, the statuesque woman briskly smooths down her expansive skirts, conversing absently with the stoic Drifblim beside her.

_And so it begins._

The contest begins. He watches with interest as the other participants are put through their paces, as they effortlessly command their Pokémon to perform breathtaking moves of startling complexity; he claps appreciatively when the dance competition begins—the movements are flawless, exquisite, like living poetry in the fluidity of the motions.

The violet-clad woman – _Fantina,_ the emcee calls her – with the intricate coiffure wins the contest; he is not in the least surprised, and applauds along with the audience as she accepts her award and blows kisses to the crowd.

"A most magnificent performance, _mi señora_," Juan murmurs as she glides gracefully past; she responds with a coy smile.

"_Je vous remercie, mon bon monsier_," she demurs, but then pauses. "Ah, that is to say, thank you, good sir. You must pardon my English – I have not yet acquainted myself properly with this language. The best way to improve is to practice, _non_?"

He responds in the affirmative. "Quite. But, before you leave—may I make a most humble request?"

Fantina blinks, lashes fluttering like butterfly-wings as she presses her hands to her hear, fingers moving in an elaborate pantomime. "Yes?"

A dashing smile spreads itself across his features. "_Mademoiselle_, a dance, if you please. Nobody needs to know—the night stars shall be our only witnesses."

**{oo7} → grass knot** **→ roark/gardenia**

If the mechanics behind her trademark attack are anything to go by, then Roark is sure he has fallen hard.

The beauty of it is that none of them were expecting it.

He first saw her chatting animatedly with a citizen in Eterna City, when he was just passing by to visit his grandfather.

He misses the knowing smile his father's father wears on his creased face when he asks about the young woman with the chestnut bob. He misses the old man's chortle as he ruffles his hair and tells him he's all grown-up now—whatever that may mean. When Roark returns to Oreburgh, his thoughts are preoccupied by visions of heavy, scuffed hiking boots and tangerine eyes, a cheeky grin and a forest-green poncho.

The next time he sees her, he is too preoccupied with searching for the slim-framed figure to notice where he is going, and promptly walks into another pedestrian.

"I'm sor—" He opens his mouth to apologise—and all his words die in his throat as soon as he catches sight of who it is. His stomach does a somersault (and a mincing pirouette, a couple of backflips, then finishing with a soaring grand jeté), and for a moment, it's almost as though he's been felled by a stealthily-placed Grass Knot.

The young woman is unfazed, and stretches out an arm to help steady him; her eyes twinkle with impish mischief and she beams broadly, taking slightly longer than is strictly necessary to release him. "Oh, no worries—it was silly of me to be breezing around without looking where I was going. By the way, I'm Gardenia," she declares; he nods absently, willing his heart to stop pounding – what is he, a lovestruck schoolboy?

"And I'm, uh, Roark. A pleasure to meet you. So, um, are you from around these parts?"

**{oo8} → magma storm** **→ steven/flannery**

The way she burns against his skin – slow, calming, _inexorable_ – is so unlike the cool distance of unusual stones he plucks from rocky geode-walls. She is filled with the vibrant exuberance of youth, the raw fire of inexperience—but that's what makes Flannery different from the others he had in his life before.

So when he watches her in one of her gym battles against a challenger, Steven is struck by fond amusement at her haphazard attempts at intimidating bluster, tactics which backfire on her by revealing her nerves and uncertainty. In the aftermath of the match, he consoles her as she bemoans her lack of bravado.

"You should just show them the real you," he says gently, wrapping his arms around her waist. "Show them the Flannery I have come to know and love, the girl who has steel in her spine and the fiery passion which we all know so well."

She blushes a fierce crimson, but shoots him a quick, crooked smile.

There's no need for her to reply.

**{oo9} → teeter dance** **→ jun/hikari**

Once upon a time, she was the one who chased after him. She was the one who had lagged behind as he charged forth with little regard for whatever perils lay ahead—after all, wasn't it his role to clear the path of all treacherous obstacles for the lady?

Once upon a time, he would constantly threaten to fine her exorbitant sums if she continued to drag her feet.

So what happened? When did Hikari overtake him and leave him struggling in her wake?

_Slow the world_, Jun wants to say as he tries to keep up with her dwindling silhouette. _Slow the world so I can run alongside you again._

**{o1o} → fake out** **→ ruby/sapphire**

In the aftermath of yet another one of their drearily typical rows, he is left to pick up the pieces.

_Sorry,_ he wants to say when she turns pointedly from him, shoulders stiff as she stalks away with a curse—but he knows it is futile to express his apology – not when the tang of denial is so thick and raw in his throat, clamouring to break into the air. The taste of the lie on the tip of his tongue is not as sweet as he once envisaged it to be—he no longer sees the fragile beauty of trying to protect her from the uncertainty of his own emotions: instead, it is heavy with regret, dragging down the very words he struggles to choke out.

_I hate you_, she shrieks in an apoplectic rage. _Don't just casually shrug things off like that._ Her eyes are overbright with unshed tears fight for domination against the dull flush of anger which rises up her throat, and Ruby can only glance down at his shoes, murmuring the same word he has always used.

He knows the words she longs to hurl at his face, the words which he can barely prevent himself flinching at. _I gave you my heart but you tossed it away. I hate you, I hate you, I hate you—for leading me on like this, for making me think you felt the same way, for lying to me, for everything._

The same pathetic, hackneyed apology is the only thing he can offer, and it will never be enough.

_Sorry, sorry, sorry_. The words repeat themselves over and over, playing in an endless loop in his skull. _One day, I'll tell you the truth._

**{o11} → whirlpool** **→ wallace/winona**

She is the wind—joyfully free, beautifully, magnificently untamed; he is the sea, constant and never-changing, pushing and pulling with his tides but never quite being able to kiss the sky.

When they meet again, Wallace is struck by a sudden pang of loss which twists and coils like a serpent in his belly. As he stands quietly alongside her and casts around aimlessly for the right things to say, he realises it is this closeness he has missed, this mutual proximity which he has not experienced for painfully long.

They say absence makes the heart fonder; but who are _they_? Philosophers who never really cared for such trivial matters, most likely. Still, Wallace cannot deny the truth – the longer he goes without once seeing her, or just hearing the familiar cadence of her voice, the more he misses her, and wishes he hadn't been foolish enough to her just slip by.

He regrets the rash impulsiveness of youth, and the fact that he had allowed Winona to just leave his life almost as easily as she came into it.

When he sees her again, he is determined not to make the same mistake. With trembling fingers, he reaches out to seize her wrist, to urgently utter the words he has longed to give her for so many years.

_Don't leave me again—I love you. _

**{o12} → destiny bond** **→ morty/kimono girl zuki**

Perhaps it is selfish of her to want to hold on to this.

She senses the disapproval in the eyes of her sisters; she knows they disagree with this forbidden affair she insists on pursuing—after all, kimono girls are supposed to be chaste, to stay pure and unsullied for their entire lives.

The others—they never express it, but she knows they do not wish for her to follow the capricious fancies of her heart – not in this way. Zuki can see it in the tight pursing of their cherry-red lips, in the frown that knits across their smooth brows; she can see it in the detached sympathy which simmers beneath the surface of their skin, hear it in the quiet note of warning in their voices.

She ignores them.

One evening finds her and Morty atop the Bell Tower—he stands out against the backdrop of gold and vermillion like a dark blot of ink spilled amongst the crinkled fallen leaves, whilst she all but drowns in the sea of rusty, muted colours, the edges of the silken fabric of her kimono bleeding into the papery foliage.

They sit in silence, back-to-back, hearing nothing but the steady rhythm of one another's breaths and the quiet, distant whisper of wind. "I won't be able to see you again," she says at last, watching with unseeing eyes as her Umbreon flits between the coppery tree-trunks like a sinuous, sentient shadow.

Morty does not respond immediately, but his breath hitches in his lungs; she can feel it in the involuntary shudder that passes through him, a faint tremor which ghosts through her own frame. With absent fingers, Zuki tugs at the edge of his scarf, worrying at the frayed edges, feeling the familiar texture as it slips from her grasp.

"It…would be better that way," he agrees, his voice low, husky. Her heart twists in her chest and she nods mutely, not trusting herself to speak. Memories of their various trysts threaten to overwhelm her – she remembers the contours of his body, the heat of his mouth on hers as they steal kisses under the fiery eyes of the starry sky.

His stoic mask breaks then—it shatters, splinters, falls into a thousand brittle fragments. He turns to press his lips to hers, one last time – and she threads her fingers desperately through his hair, not wanting to let him go. She wants to remember everything about him—his scent, his slow, enigmatic smile, his eccentric sense of humour.

When she descends, hours later, the sensation of his fingers trailing lines of shivering fire over her skin stays with her long after they walk out of one another's lives.

**{o13} → drain punch** **→ aaron/maylene**

Once, he makes the mistake of telling her he loves her.

It isn't so much the words and emotions themselves that he regrets; rather, Aaron regrets blurting it out in the heat of the moment when he drops by to visit her at her gym.

For a single, beautiful moment, she is stunned into silence, her earnest chatter dying on her lips as she gapes at him, complexion taking on a rosy hue which rivals her bubblegum locks. He grins uncertainly at her, but as the seconds slip past, he is mortified by his confession, suddenly wishing for nothing more than to sink into the polished floorboards of the dojo.

Then, without warning, she _reacts._

With a muffled cry, she swings her fist; it connects squarely with his nose and he staggers back, winded and horribly _confused._ "What did you do that for? I th-thought girls like to hear things like that!" Aaron mumbles around his hand as he gingerly feels for a break.

Maylene covers her face as the Karate Brothers abandon their training to affix the two of them with curious stares; their gazes are at once amused, puzzled and incredulous. One of them takes a step forth, knuckles cracking ominously, and Aaron pales. "Wh-what made you think I'm like all girls?" she hollers, scarlet-cheeked. "And don't j-just simply say things like that! You only say it if you mean it!"

Aaron wishes the smirking, scowling black belts would just go back to pummelling the stuffing out of their punching bags, rather than contemplating doing the same on him. "But I _do_ mean it!"

The young gym leader straightens, still red-faced, tripping over her own words. "W-well, then, I mean…_meant_ to say the exact same th-thing! Haven't you heard of a ki-kiss…kiss with a fist?"

**{o14} → heart swap** **→ dia/platina**

She's a princess, and fairytale princesses don't give their hearts to lowly squires.

She's a lady, a contessa, an empress, an embodiment of all that is beautiful and pure, and he has no right to fall for her.

But when he's alone at night, left with the bittersweet company of his churning thoughts, he falls into fitful half-dreams filled with the soft cadence of Missy's muted, hastily-stifled laughter, the sweet, mellifluous chime of her crystal voice. In his mind's eye, Dia can just imagine her giving her hand to some dashing knight in shining armour – everything he's not, not, _not_ – and growing up to be taken away by a nameless, faceless stranger.

Dia wishes he could be her prince.

But he's not, and he probably never will be. Fairytale princesses only fall in love with handsome princes riding proud, gallant steeds, noble gentlemen who can promise her the sun, the moon, the stars. Fairytale princesses are only ever rescued from the evil witch by valiant knights, and not by the knobble-kneed, gawky young pageboy in his rusty, dented chainmail who stumbles along in the wake of his master.

He may not be able to give her the world, but he can give her his heart—she already holds it cupped within her dainty little hands, even if she doesn't even know it. He may not be able to stand up to anything and everything that threatens her safety, but he can certainly try.

He knows she'll never be his, but it never hurts to dare to dream, even if he'll have his heart broken in the process.

**{o15} → meditate** **→ darach/caitlin**

Love may be the thing which countless poets, bards and chroniclers sing high praises of, but at the end of the day, Darach sees no point in believing in it—not when he is bound by the constraints of his post and the expectations of everyone else around them.

They're like the star-crossed lovers doomed to never be together.

He can forgive himself for not wanting to force himself out of bed in the mornings, because he knows better than anyone that he'll never stand a chance with Caitlin. He can forgive himself for not wanting to face imperious challengers, because he knows she will be watching their battle with that same dignified detachment, and not once will the thought of _love_ cross her mind.

But he won't be able to forgive himself for not being there for her when she needs him. He is there when she rants and raves and swears eternal vengeance on those who defeated her, furious surges of irrational ferocity which unfold behind closed doors. He is there when she cries into the satin handkerchief he proffers her, when she chastises him in a voice of the coldest ice when he loses. He is there when she suddenly dozes off at the dining table or courtyard, is there to offer apologies to whoever was in her company at the time.

_That_ is the only thing which fuels him onwards, which allows him to go through each day—the memory of her hands clasping his as she spins him around in girlish glee in the aftermath of a win, the silvery peal of her laughter as they share a private joke.

But that is the furthest they'll ever go, and Darach has to satisfy himself with merely being there to comfort her, and nothing more.

**{o16} → dark void** **→ cyrus/cynthia**

Time has not been kind to him; it has changed him, weathered him, ravaged him, left him a bitter husk.

Cynthia had asked him, once, what his childhood had been like – an innocuous question, surely the sort that friends asked one another on occasion. He never replied, had only looked away and mumbled something indecipherable into the palm of his hand, and had left it at that.

Now, she laments the loss of the quietly confident boy he had once been, the brilliant young man she had graduated alongside.

"What happened?" she asks him softly, fingers clenched as she struggles not to choke against the deadened, chilled air of the Distortion World. "Why did you change?"

"Because I had been fettered by the useless chains of emotion for far too long," he deadpans, cheekbones stark against his features like jags of slate as he bares his teeth in a mirthless grin. "I saw the light…as you never did."

"Liar," she murmurs, but there is no malice there, only sadness. "So you're saying that you never meant anything of what you said? That I was the first person who had been able to wholly accept you for who you are, the first to _warm the cockles of your heart_?"

Cyrus doesn't blink. "Yes," he drones, his voice unpleasantly sycophantic. "I was lying all along."

She cannot stand it anymore. She turns on her heel and pushes back towards the world of the living.

There is no saving him from himself. Not now, not ever.

**{o17} → future sight** **→ giovanni/sabrina**

She is not in this for the money – even though it makes a nice bonus to the shamefully paltry salary allotted to gym leaders by the Pokémon League, what cheapskates – or the status – even if it is nice to be able to order subordinate officers twice her age around.

No, the only reason Sabrina joined Team Rocket was to be closer to the object of her curiosity.

He is a strange man, to be sure—she knows not what motives spur him onwards, for he does not confide in any of them – not Surge, not Koga, not even _herself_, which is the most galling knowledge of all. He remains distant, impassive, remote – like an unexplored country with a heart of abysmal, immeasurable darkness.

Having the power to see the future is a frustrating gift; however, what she would much rather have is the ability to see the past, to learn more of the elusive enigma that is Giovanni.

If she is capable of that, then surely it is _then_ that he is truly hers.

**{o18} → powder snow** **→ volkner/candice**

The cold may have become a distant sensation of discomfort for her, but she can tell he is unused to this weather—Candice can see it in the stiff set of his shoulders and the involuntary tremors which wrack his frame. He is used to the perpetual sun – and surf – of Sunyshore City, and once again, she is struck by a pang of guilty affection for him: to brave the cold for her sake is a thought that warms her to the very bottom of her heart.

Thus so, for his sake, she doesn't object when Volkner – with loudly-chattering teeth – extricates himself from his coat and drapes it over her shoulders, breath gusting from his lips in smoky puffs as he chides her for wearing such light clothing in such weather.

**{o19} → brine** **→ red/misty**

The best thing to do for the people you love is to let them go.

And thus, although she is reluctant to, she knows he'll never truly be hers – not with his frustrating, obfuscating obliviousness, his half-realised fascination towards the petite blonde with the long golden ponytail.

Misty knows it's useless to wish he'll one day see her as more than just a friend, a gym leader—he will forever be preoccupied by naïve curiosity and delicate girlish features.

So she lets him go; she releases him from the silvered fishhook forged from her helpless infatuation, and watches as he unknowingly leaves her behind.

Love, Misty knows now, is about making sacrifices; there's no need to say she's doing it, because after all, actions speak louder than words.

Red knows that better than most.

**{o2o} → fire blast** **→ ruby/marge**

When she makes her offer to him, he has no response other than to recoil away from the black-gloved hand – with the burning, searing touch he knows is attributed to more than just the fiery berry juice she daubs her fingers with – as though stung.

"Are you interested in joining us?" she whispers, her voice a silken purr which sends an icicle of fear lodging firmly between his shoulderblades.

Ruby feels rather than sees her smile, a thin, sardonic quirk of her lips as she reaches forwards to boldly, daringly cup his chin. For an instant, he can only gape blankly at her, seeing instead of himself, the light of dancing, flickering flames reflected twofold in her dark gaze.

His hands curl into fists, knuckles straining white against his skin. "Never," he rasps out, eyes watering from the acrid plumes of smoke coiling from the flames her Ninetales breathes.

For a single, frozen heartbeat, she remains still, features thrown into shadow by the frenetic dance of the ring of fire which surrounds them. Then—

"So be it," Marge declares, the cold blaze of contempt colouring her rising tones. "If I can't have you, nobody else can."

**- - x x x x x - -**

**epilogue. **_Usual disclaimers apply. Written for Pokeprompts on LiveJournal._


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